Warmth
by laurelsalexis
Summary: after the murder of an ada rafael finds himself transferred to manhattan's district attorney's office.


**A/N:** This fic is basically a what if Barson meant all the way back in s1. It loosely follows some of the eps, mostly because I'm not making up my own cases. All episodes referenced will be noted before the start of each chapter. The episodes are not in chronological order for some reason I can't understand, so it might seem weird, but trust me. I painfully organized a whole timeline. Tumblr is laurelsalexis if you wish to come bug me~

Episodes referenced in this chapter: 1x08, 'Stalked' 1x13, 'Disrobed'

* * *

Rafael is thirty as he stands at the foot of the hospital bed, hands on the railing, looking up at Ramón Barba. There's a voice inside his head that tells him he should feel something, _anything_. He doesn't. He feels at peace knowing that he doesn't need to stand there and listen to the words spew from the mouth of his father, nor is there a hand raised. Not when he's there in the coma and has been for the last thirteen days. Missed Christmas, New Years Eve and Day, making the holidays somewhat different within the Barba household.

Something that is fine with him.

He doesn't see the point in pretending that things are okay or that he even holds any love for his father. No one detests the old man as much as he does. That he is absolutely certain. It's quiet as the lays in that bed and back in the apartment he was raised in, it remains just as quiet, _nice_. First time in thirty long years he can stand being in there for more than five minutes a time.

His mother is unhappy and for that he feels bad about, but the man lying there in the diabetic coma because he couldn't be bothered to take care of himself? Well, he is not going to feel bad about that.

At least, not _entirely_ bad.

Sometimes he thinks that Catholics can never be truly happy as there is always some guilt lying beneath the surface. His guilt comes in many forms he can barely manage to make out what comes from where. Only that he's going to need to pray a little harder for forgiveness with some of the thoughts he's had about the man.

He remembers the first time when he was a kid and realized the kind of man his father was. Cruel and angry. Not happy with either America or Cuba. As if both places were going to doom him no matter what. He'd come home after spending time with Alex and Eddie, getting into small trouble he shouldn't. He was late and had ruined the whole evening by that, his beloved Abuelita having her birthday.

He wished him dead that night as the bruises formed on his body, not for the first or last time. That night he fell asleep to the arguing in Spanish and pretended not to notice when the screaming turned into something else.

No matter what, however, he kept those details to himself. He never told anyone at school, never told any of the other kids in the neighborhood, never told the girlfriend he had in high school, nor the boy he would make out with by one of the old burnt down apartment buildings that was nothing but rubble. He perfected his future skills as a lawyer then, always making a case for himself, twisting the words of others into something entirely different. As long as they never found out the truth about him, it didn't matter.

The old man didn't deserve it. Death. He didn't deserve something so... _easy_. He deserved to be found and arrested, tried and convicted, spending some time in prison would have done him good. Or he would have been _that_ much angrier upon getting out and death is the only true mercy for them all. It's a good thing he is a lawyer and not sitting himself in a cell. So many cases wind up on his desk from abuse to murder. Fathers who can't control themselves, who hit their wives, their children. Who violated them in far more gruesome ways than he's ever been. He knows he's lucky, in that way. He also knows being a prosecutor is the best place for him.

He can help in ways others couldn't help him.

Plus, he never had a chance at being a cop. Eddie, maybe, but his mind was always his most powerful weapon.

The sound of the breathing machine is the only thing heard in the room as his eyes shift down to the watch on his wrist, which by quick estimation he has seventeen minutes before he needs to leave but only eight minutes before his mother will come and sit with him.

He wants to avoid her, avoid them both, but at least his father cannot speak.

The doctors will be in shortly, give the update they always give, and make some comment about how they really need to make a decision. By they, they really mean _him_ , it falls on his own shoulders. A man of the house thing even if he no longer lives with his parents, and his mother finds herself processing the impending death of her husband. She could always do far better but she never does. Rather stands by him and that gives Rafael the out he so desperately desires from that Bronx neighborhood.

It's not the neighborhood he hates, just the family within it. Well, at least he hates the family he was born into more than he hates the neighborhood. Even with as destroyed as it was as a kid. It's better now, getting better, at least, but as a kid he saw so many things that he no child should ever need to see.

He worked hard and got himself to Harvard, a place that was a haven of sorts, and that took him back to New York at the District Attorney's office.

 _The Manhattan District Attorney's office._

He'd been in Brooklyn but opportunities arise and he's never been on to do anything but take what is offered. How he got to where he is.

Of course, he really isn't sure what it says that he is the replacement for the raped and murdered former Assistant District Attorney. **Karen Fitzgerald**. He needs to keep her name on the forefront of his mind so he doesn't accidentally say something that earns him out of favor. There's an uphill battle as it is. Manhattan is not Brooklyn, nor is it the Bronx, and it sure as hell is a far cry from Harvard.

Another glance is given to his watch. "En el nombre del padre, del hijo y del espíritu santo." He murmurs softly as he crosses himself before heading out of the hospital room, actually making it so he avoids the doctor and his mother. When he returns later that evening he'll have to speak with them if his mother hasn't taken to praying or cooking. Usually both, spending time with his abuelita.

She's better than he is, his mother, to even give his father anything he doesn't deserve.

Death is a cruel part of life and he knows when his father meets it he will not feel as calm and at peace as he does walking through the hospital halls, ducking down a corner to avoid nearly everyone, and making it through the front door so he's on the city streets where no one is going to ask him one thing about who either he or his father are.

* * *

Rafael's been locked in that office for what feels forever. It's nearing four PM as he sits there, jotting notes down, a little too messily, on all the files. He's been playing catch up on all of the cases that Karen left behind, while trying to juggle the new ones. A little more high paced than Brooklyn, but not by much. It's his family matters that are putting more stress on him than the work.

The work is an escape so he doesn't need to think about what both the doctors and his own mother are whispering in his ear of what to do. He doesn't have time to spend in church trying to clear the war in his mind.

There's a heavy sigh as he smacks the next folder down onto the pile. It doesn't help that Karen clearly took cases she had no business taking. Even he isn't sure if he can prosecute them all and while he doesn't care too much about numbers, he also does not want to tank himself within the first few months of being there. Most of the cases he got to plea out, however. There are still two more he'll need to prosecute, but that is after he prosecutes _her_ rape and murder. In addition to the one of Louise Billings. The crime scene photos are not particularly enjoyable to look at, as if they ever are, but they do their best to keep him awake without drinking all of the coffee in Manhattan.

It can be so much easier if Richard White is willing take a plea, but he seems a man hell bent on making sure he has his day. Not that he minds, for he does enjoy being in the courtroom. He also knows that he can win nearly any case, both on wit and intellect. It's not a question of whether or not White is going to prison, but rather if it's life or death by lethal injection.

He holds no personal opinion in the matter. Only wants to make certain he holds no chance of ever walking the streets again, and that his own life is not put in too much danger.

The man in questions wants to take it to trial and based on the notes left behind by Detective Benson and Detective Stabler. It is going to be an interesting case. One he will win, but still interesting with the psyche of the defendant.

He has Carmen set up a meeting with said Detective Benson, one that is supposed to start in twenty minutes, so that he can make sure there is nothing he is missing. Sometimes detectives have habits of leaving things out and given that she is the one that White is fixated on he needs her to be perfect.

No errors.

For that he needs to meet her first.

There's a soft knock at his office door, Carmen walking through. "Detective Benson is here to see you."

"Send her in." He replies, though doesn't pull his eyes off of his papers.

"I don't think I've ever been in here." Olivia speaks, looking around, hands in the pocket of her jacket.

"Mm." He still hasn't looked up. Rather he's speed reading through the file that he is almost through and holds the last bit of information. It's not the case pertaining to her, but with the time he needs to spend with his father and closing statements come morning he is taking the moment he needs. After his meeting with her he needs to get out of the office so he can go sit with his father.

Olivia spends a good two minutes standing there before she clears her throat, arms crossed against her chest. "If I'm wasting your time I can find something else to do."

He holds his index finger up at her, scribbling something down on the paper. "Just one more...second." The word drawn out until his pen hits the desk with a thud and he looks at up the detective. His first thought it is that she is pretty and his second thought is that he needs to not think such thoughts about people he's meant to work with. He wants to keep his nose clean. There are too many complications as it is. "Coffee?" He asks, hiding his nervous bite, as he stands. "I need coffee."

"Uh, sure." Olivia replies, giving him a careful eye, following him as he moves to the coffee.

"Sit." He suggests, grabbing two of cups and pouring coffee in. "Cream? Sugar?"

She sits in the chair suggested. "Yes."

He mixes them the same with ease, putting a touch (or more than a touch) more sugar in his own before he walks back over to his desk, setting the cups of coffee down for them both. "I need to go over this with you before trial next week. I don't think I can get capital murder." He doesn't know where she stands on that, nor does he ask. "Life without parole is more or less a guarantee."

"He wouldn't say he used the gun. It was a game to him." Olivia mutters a soft thanks while taking a sip of the coffee. "I keep thinking if I have another run at him. I could just get it out of him."

Rafael looks at her with a raise of his eyebrow, skeptical. "The same guy who said," he pauses, flipping through the file, "'I think she liked it' about murdering Karen." He takes a quick sip of the coffee. "Or described the sound of her trachea being crushed as, 'styrofoam peanuts crunching' and when you told him he was descriptive he said 'thank you.'"

"I was there, Barba." No missing the agitation in her voice.

"You don't like me." He muses, smiling against the rim of his cup. "Most people don't."

"I don't know you." She offers a shrug of her shoulder, hands wrapping around the warmth of the cup.

 _Fair enough_ , he thinks but doesn't speak. "How well did you know her?"

"We had a drink a few times. It's all in the report."

"I know I'm asking you."

Olivia knows how this goes. "Sometimes after cases we would meet for drinks in this bar everyone goes to not far from here. We had some small talk, mostly about work. She liked to go to the park. We weren't friends."

"Good." He cringes when he realizes how that sounds. "The jury and defense won't see you as impartial then." He flips through the papers until he lands on the crime scene photos, emphasis on the bullet wounds. "The gun?"

"Never found."

"And he won't admit to using one, just a knife." He's speaking more to himself than her. "Overkill the jury will love that. It's personal. He said he did this because he humiliated her? Well, people have been killed for less."

"Yeah."

"I don't need him to admit it." He looks at Olivia, trying to seem like he knows she is still there. "It's a stretch but worse case, they don't convict on the death penalty. He'd still get life. I should try. He's not getting out. Not with the confession. Not with murdering an ADA, Louise Billings, and stalking and assaulting a NYPD detective."

"I know." She leans forward, placing the cup on the desk. "Look, I've heard you're good but I've seen easier cases go down the drain. This guy needs to be put away. For everyone's safety. You also need to make sure the rape is in there. She wasn't _just_ murdered."

"I worked in sex crimes back in Brooklyn. This isn't my first rodeo. The jury will know everything but it's your testimony that I need more than anyone else's. You are the one he is fixated on currently. I just want to be sure I'm not missing anything. I know detectives aren't fans of paperwork."

The scoff from Olivia is audible. "It's all there. I do my job."

"Then this will go smoothly."

They spend the next hour going over every single detail of the case. _Twice_. He won't have time to see her before her testimony and he's not taking any chances. Not with a case like this and the District Attorney is looking at him to prove his value to Manhattan. They remain strictly professional and he admires that about her, can see how much she clearly cares.

Half wonders if that is how she is about all the victims or whether it's the personal connection.

If Carmen was raped and murdered in the park he would definitely be working hard to make sure whoever did such a thing to her was put away in jail for a very, very long time. He'd only been working with her the past six weeks.

The last file hits the desk as he lets out a groan, stretching in his chair, letting the pleasure move through him. He needs to get out of that chair and given he has to go all the way to the Bronx before going home to his apartment to sleep he will definitely feel better than he feels breaking in the relatively new chair.

"I think we'll be okay." If not, well, if not he is really going to need to find a new job.

"Is this her office?" Olivia asks as she stands, giving another glance around.

Rafael looks around, unsure. "I don't know. I could find out, if you want." He hadn't really thought about it, in truth. He just took the office they gave him without questions.

"No." Olivia shakes her head, offering him a polite smile. "It's fine."

He stands as he organizes the files into something he can smush into the briefcase he is almost always glued to. "Don't be late. For court."

"Don't blow the case." Olivia smiles as she moves to the door, something more genuine.

If he is guessing he thinks that she is being somewhat humorous with him, a soft jest. He only smiles, against his better judgement, grabbing his coat and putting it on. "I'll walk you down."

"I'm the one with the gun."

"Humor me."

"Fine." She bids a goodnight to Carmen just as he does. "How's your caseload?"

"Nothing I can't handle." He replies, glancing at her out of the corner of his eyes. "Unless you're about to dump a case on me."

"Is that the limit? One more? And I thought you had more in you."

"Asking about me, Detective?"

"I wanted to know who I was working with."

"I'm no Jack McCoy. Yet." There's a cocky little smirk plastered on his lips. He'll work his way up and when the grey hairs settle in he'll be a hell of a lot higher up the food chain.

"No one is Jack McCoy."

He lets out a chuckle as they push through the front door and out into the dark New York streets. "Have a nice night and don't forget -"

"Yes, court, I know and don't be late. I got it. Don't worry."

"My job is to worry." He smiles before heading off in the opposite direction to sit with his ailing father.

* * *

Rafael can see the snow falling through the window from where he is curled into the small chair, oddly glad that he can fit with an ease. He nodded off to the sound of the breathing machine, something calm as he made certain he was preparing court the next morning. He's getting less and less sleep as the days pass him by, reminding him of law school. Something that he got through on the legal rush, not anything that is currently keeping him awake.

"Rafi." The sound of his mother's voice is as soft as it's going to get as her hand touches his shoulder. "You need to eat."

"I'm fine."

" **Mijo**." Word spoken in that tone that begs him to challenge.

He doesn't, knowing better than to break out into a fight with her in the middle of the hospital. Instead he folds the files in his lap and set them down on the stand that houses a lamp and the hospital phone. Doubts his father will mind since he's not exactly going to wake up any time soon.

Ever, actually.

He pulls on the blazer as he walks towards the door.

"You missed church." His mother mentions before he manages to make it out the door.

"I was busy." A half lie, half truth. He could have taken the time away from his files, but church seems like the last place he wants to be. After everything there's just a lot on his mind. Father Mike is on his mind, regardless. Doesn't need to be sitting in the pews.

"He would be disappointed."

He shakes his head, turning back briefly, not all the way, gaze more focused on the wall than either of his parents. "Let him be."

There's a twinge of guilt that runs through him, he feels bad for his mother, for the guilt in his mind for the fact that he's not doing what he's supposed to do. He supposes they expect him to be married, have a child. His parents were younger than he was, but he also sleeps with men, _likes_ sleeping with men. They do not approve. Jesus, his father. His mother tries to keep the peace, whispers she loves him, but there's a feeling. Something he cannot explain.

He only wishes it could all be different. The dynamic with his parents, not his preferences. He learned long ago to be happy with himself and who he turned out to be. Some harsh truths found him but he's a better man for it.

He takes the long route down to the cafeteria, standing there and grabbing a cup of coffee, and a small bag of peanuts. It's not dinner nor does he really want it to be. He's not hungry, more or less down there to please his mother. He pays and offers a small smile before he's back walking into the halls.

Never has he ever liked hospital, can't stand them now, as he walks slowly. It feels so sterile, as if he's the one dying, going to drop dead right then and there. That would certainly be something. He offers a polite smile to the nurse moving past him with a chart in her hand before he's near standing outside of his father's room once more. He doesn't go in, rather drinks the coffee so slow it'll be cold before he finishes.

Anything to avoid it.

"Barba." A voice calls out for him, surprise to it.

He doesn't need to turn to know who it is and takes another sip of coffee just because. "Detective Benson."

Of course. He hasn't seen her since their little meeting in the middle of the week and definitely didn't expect to see her on a Sunday.

"What are you doing here?" She asks as she moves to stand next to him.

"I really enjoy hospitals." He manages, not daring to look at her. Not when he knows he can mask everything but the look in his eyes. "I kind of just roam around until I find a place to go over my cases."

"In the Bronx?"

"I love the Bronx." He actually manages to sound like it's an absolute truth.

"I'm sure."

"What are you doing here?"

"Past victim, had my card on her." Her voice becomes more serious at that.

How personal it all is makes him feel a little more uncomfortable. Rather, he stands there and lets the silence hang between them, only nodding at her words. Knowing his luck his mother is about to walk from the door and demand who she is. While the answer is relatively simple, he knows that there are just some things he would really, really rather avoid.

"Ready?" A male voice comes out from the other side of Olivia.

Rafael turns to head to look at the man. He takes a wild guess that it's her partner, or her boyfriend, but probably her partner. "Don't let me keep you."

Olivia looks at him like she wants to say something. "This is the ADA I told you about." She tells Elliot. "Rafael Barba." She turns to Rafael. "This is Detective Elliot Stabler."

"Pleasure." Rafael greets as he shakes the man's firm grip.

"The Fitzgerald case, right?" Elliot returns as his hand drops to his side.

"Yeah. Should be wrapped up soon."

"Good."

"I'll see you in court." Olivia smiled as she walked off with Elliot.

He watches them until they walk out of sight and focuses his attention on the door he needs to walk through so he can actually deal with his family. Or pretend to not deal with them at all. He is only grateful that Olivia hadn't pushed. He really prefers when things do not get personal. He wants clear lines. Or, at the very least, he has no interest in every speaking about his father.

Something about telling a trained detective that works in sex crimes that she would be able to pick apart the truths in an instant.

He stops worrying about it as he walks back in the room and sees the way his mother is mirroring his earlier position. He takes a blanket and puts it over her before finding his own seat. The files end up back in his lap so he can review, glancing at the way the machine carries the breaths of his father.

Maybe when he dies he'll actually feel something.

* * *

It's only when the guilty verdict comes back does he feel like he's actually done something worthwhile in Manhattan. Olivia's testimony had been perfect, even more than perfect. If he was in the complimenting business he might have told her that her candor with the jury helped more. The death penalty is still a stretch but he's comfortable enough with two consecutive life imprisonments without any parole that it doesn't matter all that much to him. For the murders, at least. There's a whole list of other charges that will get the man extra time. He doesn't even care as the defendant sneers at him before being taken away.

His attention turns to packing up his briefcase so he can go back to his office and deal with the mounting paperwork. A case was put on his desk that morning and he barely had any time to work on it. Surprise hits him when he looks over to see Olivia still sitting there, not looking as happy as one would expect.

"Richard White won't ever see the light of day again." He offers when he moves over to her.

"It's not that."

He gives a singular nod of his head, debating whether he should ask her what it was or leave her to be. "Let me buy you a drink." He chooses option number three, surprising even himself.

Olivia looks up at him like she's expecting him to change his mind. "I'm picking the place."

"I'm not going to a cop bar."

Olivia laughs. "No, you stick out too much."

"Thank you." Not looking like a cop is most definitely a compliment in his book.

They end up at a relatively quiet bar that definitely is not filled with cops or lawyers. Normal looking people.

Except them.

He perches himself down on a stool after taking his jacket off. "Scotch."

"A scotch man." Olivia muses before ordering a beer for herself.

"Do you expect any less?"

"Bourbon, maybe. Oh! Maybe a _martini_."

"I can't remember the last time I ever had a martini."

"Not missing out."

"You are." Eyes shifting towards the bottle. "Your Corona needs a lime, at least."

"Says, Mr. Scotch."

Rafael rolls his eyes before calling the bartender over. "A Corona and two limes." He waits until the situation is remedied before he turns to her, offering her a lime. "What kind of establishment makes you ask for the lime?"

"You're full of surprises, Counselor."

"I'm from the South Bronx, Detective. You have no idea." He likes to think his childhood got him somewhere. No, it didn't open doors, ever. It did shape his personality and give him quite a tough skin. There was very little that could truly hurt him and that made him an even better lawyer. Always a way out and a passion to make certain he did his best to be the Cuban no one expects, over the Cuban everyone expects.

"My first year on the force was in the Bronx."

Now it's his turn to be surprised. "And you survived."

"It's not that bad."

"It's better." He concedes, taking a sip of the beer. A slightly ridiculous feeling finds him as he has both a beer and a scotch, but it's a well deserved break before he sees his father and drowns himself in work. "What was it, early 90s? Crack, prostitutes on Jerome, fights, gangs, come on." He gives her a pointed look.

"Okay, fine." She puts her hand up in surrender. "I liked the my job though, learned a lot."

"I prefer Manhattan."

Olivia turns her body so she's facing him. "Where does Brooklyn fall?"

"Not bad." He shrugs, focusing a bit more on the drink than his company.

"But not good."

"Closer to the hospital." He barely registers the candor, noticeably stiffens on a delay.

"For your case prep."

"Yeah." There's a relief in her not asking him more about it. "The case prep."

"I shot someone."

Eyes turn to her, arm resting on the bartop, allowing himself to face her then. "Oh."

"I thought my partner was in danger." She continues, offering up an explanation for the topic he hadn't even broached, perhaps never would have. "White didn't need the death penalty for me to feel satisfied."

"You're not in cuffs so I don't think this is legal advice."

"No." She drank her beer. "Clean shooting. I'll be fine."

"What happened?"

"Abusive husband, out of jail, went after the wife. Classic."

There's something about that that causes him to switch back to the scotch, just the mere thought dragging up memories he's been trying to escape for weeks. "Good thing he's dead."

"Wow, counselor." There's more surprise than judgement.

"A lot of Domestic Violence cases stumble across my desk." There's a brief moment where he thinks he should come up with some kind of lie, something better, something that doesn't cause anger to move through him. They're friendly, as friendly as two people who worked half of a case together can be, at least. "I can't even begin to tell you how many cases get blown because the wives sit there and defend their husbands. Or the jury ends up in a deadlock because someone cannot imagine how Mr. Armani Suit would ever touch his wife or child in a way he shouldn't. Those cases when they end up back on my desk to file murder charges." He shakes his head and finishes off the rest of his scotch. "I don't feel sorry for men like that." His words are finished just as he stands and puts his coat back on, leaving more than enough to cover the drinks they share. "Hospital."

"You'll be okay?" Olivia asks, looking up at him with a slight concern.

"Of course, Detective."

He always is.


End file.
